By now my skin is crocheted with bright red, itchy hives. It's also crotch'cheted so bad, it appears as though I'm walking around my home imitating porn stars in the music industry—I mean—pop stars in the music industry with my constant cootchie-cootch grabbing. It's ridiculous. The divas of pop culture look like churchy prudes in comparison to my current antics.
A decision needs to be made, I think to myself. Your doctor's office is going to be closing soon. Make a call or hunker down and deal with this nightmare the entire evening.
But here's the thing—
People who run to the doctor for every little bump, scrape and sniffle annoy the hell out of me. I, for one, don't want to add to the ever-growing group of human weakness on this planet. It seems our world is turning into a big pansy garden—blossoming at alarming speeds due to the miracle grow manure of delusional entitlement, participation trophies and living life through the filter of technology. People are literally full of shit these days—and I don't want to be any part of their whining and wimpy shenanigans. To put it another way, I don't want to be the idiot who goes to the doctor—only to be handed a Claritin and eye roll.
However, it's getting harder to soldier on like a badass weed growing through a crack in a big city sidewalk. In fact, the itching growing in my own crack is starting to affect my mental sanity. This dandelion is feeling far from dandy—my thoughts are turning seedy. It might be time to blow off this current fight and make a different wish for my future.
Screw it! I surrender!
Grabbing my phone, I march towards the parking lot so I'm positioned in a spot with the best possible cell reception. It's going to be embarrassing enough explaining the delicate nature of my current condition once to some stranger. I just don't have the energy to repeat myself five times.
While traipsing along the path towards my car, I unknowingly walk into the invisible threads of a partially constructed spider web. Immediately my inborn ninja talents are activated. I punch and kick the air like a martial arts warrior as though I'm single-handedly taking on Genghis Khan's vast army. Arms slicing. Knees thrusting. Head flinging. Hips snapping. After expending enough energy to have defeated Khan's million-man forces, I give my body a quick pat down to make sure my person is not unknowingly smuggling either a spider or partially eaten cocooned insect.
"Not funny Fiddy Cent!" I breathlessly shout.
Leaning up against my CRV, I wait patiently on hold to speak to the 24 hour consulting nurse—rubbing up against the bumper so I'm not scratching my untouchables in front of all my neighbors. Although, now it looks like I'm humping my car—but, whatever. In any case, I trace the shiny Honda symbol with my finger out of boredom. Right on cue, my ADD kicks in and I break into song.
[sings] "So your girlfriend rolls a Honda, playin' workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain't got a motor in the back of her Honda
My anaconda don't want none
Unless you've got buns, hon
I like big butts and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny—"
"Hi, my name is Nurse Maven," a female voice says over the phone, bringing my parking lot musical performance to an instantaneous end. "How may I help you today?"
"Hi. I'm calling because I'm unsure about my current physical state and since my doctor's office is about to close I thought I should probably call—just to make sure. I tried searching Google to see if I could figure out what it was, but I'm still not quite sure what it is. It's probably nothing. I feel silly for even calling. I hardly ever go to the doctor because—"
"Sweetheart," Nurse Maven interrupts. "What symptoms are you experiencing? Let's start there."
I take a deep breath—thoughts swirling in my brain. I'm not even sure where to start with my explanation. "My best guess after searching online is that I have some sort of allergic reaction. But I'm not allergic to anything—other than bug bites—so it seems weird it would be an allergic reaction. I mean, I swell up some when I get bit by a mosquito or spider or something, but nothing like this. I literally feel like I fell asleep in the world's largest spider's nest."
"Oh, yuck," the nurse responds sympathetically. "And what symptoms make you suspect it's an allergic reaction?"
"I have this growing rash on my body. It's so itchy, it's almost burning."
"And where is this rash spreading."
Damn it! I knew she was going to ask that question. I walk to the other side of my car to help shield my voice from any eavesdropping ears. "It's under my arms. On butt. On my thighs. Between my legs. Under my boobs. In my butt crack. Pretty much all the private areas."
"Your breathing sounds a bit winded. Are you having difficulty breathing?"
"Well, I've sort of gained a few pounds recently. I'm sure it's just the excess weight. I really need to start exercising again. And right before calling I walked into a spider web, so I'm probably still recovering from that."
"But have you noticed any change in your breathing since having this rash or hives?"
I think back to the earliest hours of the morning when I had to lay on my porch bench for fresh air. "I suppose. I noticed earlier this morning I was having some difficulty breathing. But again, I've gained a bunch of weight recently, so I'm sure my body is being weighed down by the pressure of all the excess weight. I really do need to start exercising and eating better."
"You are such a woman." Nurse Maven laughs at first, but then the tone of her voice gradually gets more serious. "It does sound to me like you could possibly be having an allergic reaction of some sort. You should never brush off having difficulty breathing though. That could turn into a real serious situation."
"But I don't want to be THAT person," I reply. I can feel myself defending my own embarrassment.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want to be the person who rushes into the doctor's office only to be prescribed a cup of water and a Claritin."
"No," she agrees. "But you also don't want to ignore a breathing issue. That's not something you wait till the last possible minute on. If you wait till the last possible minute to call for help, help might not get to you on time."
Nurse Maven's words scare me a bit, because they paint a picture of my personality perfectly. I would literally wait until one of my last few struggling breaths before I called 911 for help. The image of my naked body being strapped to a gurney while the neighbors—especially that sexy one—gawk at the unfortunate state of my existence is one of my greatest fears. It's the grown-up version of walking into a high school classroom naked. But instead of being judged and humiliated by peers who are more popular, this version involves being judged and humiliated by the most successful members of society. The attractive members. The brilliantly talented members. The financially abundant members. The elaborately titled members. The influentially powerful members. The thought of being vulnerably naked (both literally and metaphorically) in front of this crowd is so frightening, my mind literally goes black when I try to imagine the humiliation. Naturally, I assume the blackness is a result of being killed by fear.
"If I were you," Nurse Maven adds calmly, "I'd go to Urgent Care. It's up to you, of course. But that is what I recommend."
I nod until I realize the nurse can't see me nodding. "OK. I'll go to Urgent Care. I definitely don't want to be the one responsible for calling 911 on myself."
I can hear a smile on the nurse's end. I'm not sure how it's possible to hear a smile, I just do—if only in my mind's eye. "Good," she replies. "This decision makes me feel good."
"Thank you for your time—and patience. My thoughts get so scattered sometimes."
"That's what we're here for. And remember," she adds. "If you should suddenly feel worse, please don't hesitate to call 911. Please—that's what they're for."
"I'll call if I need to," I lie. "Thank you again for your time. I'm leaving as soon as I hang up."
"You're welcome. And go! Go to Urgent Care. I hope they can make you feel better."
"Me too."
I end the phone conversation and rush back into my condo to gather my things. Tying my hair up in a nasty bun, I catch of glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Unibrow. Old, Chili Bowl sweatshirt. Lack of commitment to shaving. My look has definitely fallen towards the lower end of the grooming spectrum. But I just shrug my shoulders and squirt myself down with some body spray. "Whatever. This isn't a beauty competition."
And with that—I jump in my Honda and drive off towards a Seattle area Urgent Care.
*****McSEXY BREAK*****
This chapter happened exactly as it did in real life. Poor Nurse Maven.
MUSIC: Sir Mix A Lot. The big bottoms of Seattle love this Washington native.
Your vote is McAppreciated. Muah!
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